


In Dreams

by maebyrutherford (maeberutherford)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Drunkenness, F/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7895776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maeberutherford/pseuds/maebyrutherford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ingrid Trevelyan celebrates a bit too hard after a victory.</p><p>Tumblr prompt: ways to say "I Love You" - Slowly, dripping from your tongue like honey</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I don't want to spoil anything, but if anything seems out of character, keep reading!

Another hard-fought victory against the Red Templars, another excuse to drink and be merry. The trouble was, Ingrid and her crew had long since passed “merry” and were now firmly established as “utterly drunk”.

It was entirely unintentional, as these things often are. They had gathered around the fire in their corner of the camp while Krem rolled the wine cask over and cracked it open. Soon that went dry, and then another was seemingly produced from nowhere, then another, and so on. The Chargers definitely came prepared; they reasoned the wine was good for either a win or a defeat. The companions cheered to their triumph, laughed until their sides hurt, and took turns telling stories. Ingrid didn’t realize how affected she was until she stood up and the scenery swayed around her.

“Why is… everything moving?” she slurred. Bull guffawed into a cough, and Dalish smacked him on the back.

“My dear, it’s not your surroundings that are moving, it’s you,” Dorian drawled, handing his cup over for a refill. “And where are you going?”

Ingrid struggled to focus on Dorian’s face. “Can’t a woman piss in peace around here?”

Dorian waved at her in dismissal, but in doing so almost fell off the empty cask he was sitting on. He caught himself deftly with the ball of his foot, not spilling a drop.

She managed to weave her way through their encampment, nodding at soldiers as she passed while trying to look as sober as possible, before finding a spot that was far enough away from the tents. It was still partially illuminated by the braziers but hidden by dense tall grasses. Ingrid felt a burning pressure between her legs and frantically untied her trousers - she’d waited entirely too long.

Squatting in the brush she relieved herself, startled at the force of it, and let out a long sigh. The tips of the grass tickled her chin, but she hardly cared. Her eyes fluttered shut from the sweet release.

“Inquisitor?”

She inhaled sharply and cut her business short while yanking up her trousers. A shape she’d recognize anywhere came into view walking out of the camp backlit by the fires - it was Commander Cullen, calling her name.

“Herald?” Just then his eyes found her, and he immediately blushed when he realized what she had just been doing. He turned away and rubbed the back of his neck while she finished tying her trousers.

“Forgive me - I uh, I was looking for you, and my men said you had gone this way.“

“‘Salright, I was finished anyway.” She surprised herself at her candor, and also blushed.

The two of them stood there for a minute, flushing and fidgeting, before Ingrid spoke.

“How may I be of service, Commander?” She tried to appear normal, but the words were thick and slower than she would’ve liked.

“Oh - right.” He turned to fully face her and took a step closer. Maker, he was tall. And broad. And so very handsome. “I was hoping we could review our tactics against the Red Templars. Our strategy needs work.”

Ingrid frowned. “But we beat them with minimal losses.”

“Yes, mostly because of our sheer numbers, and the Maker’s grace. But we still exhibited weak points. Some of them escaped, they’ll surely be reformulating their strategy and hit us next time in larger numbers.” He gestured toward camp. “Shall we meet in my tent?”

She must have been putting on a decent show of being sober if he thought she was in any condition to be discussing anything other than bad dates or dirty jokes. But, if she was being honest - and wine tended to make her very honest - she wanted nothing more than to be alone with the Commander.

“Splendid,” she said in her best professional tone. “Lead the way.”

He hesitated. “Are you all right? I wanted to discuss it now while the fight is still fresh, but if you’d rather wait until morning… “

She shook her head and fought back a stumble. “I’m fine. I love talking strategy! Let’s go.”

***

“And this is where our soldiers should be positioned next time in such a field, rather than here. That way we can counterattack properly while your team goes in here… “

Ingrid sat on the stool and sipped her ale while his went largely untouched. She stared at the man in front of her, watching him drone on and on about battle tactics and tapping and writing on the parchment between them. She knew what he was saying was important, but Maker help her, she couldn’t focus on the words.

Instead she focused on his knee that bounced up and down every so often, and the sound of his voice that was more comforting than her massive Orlesian bed at Skyhold. She focused on his large hands - gloveless for a change - and tried to imagine how they would feel on her skin. Would they be soft, or callous? Either way, she got the distinct impression they could do so much more than wield a sword and shield.

She focused on the way the candlelight flickered across his amber eyes, and wished they were looking at her as intently as they were looking at the parchment. She focused on his hair and how it was messier in camp than it was at Skyhold, with individual curls popping up and over his forehead, and wished he would leave it like that always.

Blood pumped through her and her breath quickened. All the times she’d yearned for him since the first time he’d smiled at her coalesced into a heated frustration she’d never felt before. Something deep and animalistic surged within her, and before she knew what she was doing, she pushed the small table aside, knocking his tankard to the floor and the ale within it, and straddled him.

“Inquisitor!” Cullen cried, his eyes wide. He held onto her waist, probably to keep her from falling, but he didn’t push her away.

“Cullen,” she purred, while a tiny voice deep down inside her screamed for her to stop. She ignored it, and braced herself on his fur pauldrons. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, in the war council. You want this, don’t you?” She ground her hips against his once, twice.

“I - I - this is entirely inappropriate,” he stammered, still not pushing her away. She could feel him hardening against her. “You’re the Inquisitor!”

“I don’t care,” she said, her voice dripping with honey. “I love you.” She let the words draw out slow and sweet. “And I want you.”

“I - I love you, too,” he gasped, and his hand reached behind her neck and pulled her in for a searing, passionate kiss. He pulled back breathlessly. “I’ve always loved you, from the moment we met. And Maker, how I ache for you.”

“Oh, Cullen, take me now!” she sighed, and somehow he’d gotten her tunic and breastband off already and his mouth was suckling her aching nipples.

She reached between her legs and with one pull on his ties his erection sprung free. She spread her legs wide (where had her trousers and smalls gone?) and he pressed himself against her entrance. She cried out and kissed him, and they moaned into each other’s mouths as she slid down onto his cock, slowly, inch by agonizing inch -

“Inquisitor,” a gentle voice interrupted. Ingrid blinked against the bright light streaming across her face. She rubbed her face and struggled to get her bearings.

“Sorry to wake you, I thought I heard you calling my name. I must have been mistaken.” Cullen slowly came into focus above her. He was holding a beverage.

“What? Where am I?” she croaked.

“You fell asleep during our meeting, I barely caught you before you hit the floor. I let you sleep in my cot, I hope you don’t mind. Don’t worry,” he hurriedly added, “I slept on the other side of the tent.”

She sat up and immediately regretted it. “Ah, my head.” She noticed her boots were set neatly next to the cot.

He grimaced in sympathy. “Here,” he handed her the cup. “Drink this, should help. An old soldier’s remedy.”

She took the cup and emptied it, ignoring the bitter taste, and handed it back to him. “Thanks,” was the only word she could muster.

“I’ll fetch you some more. Someone made up a whole batch - seems you weren’t the only one celebrating last night.” He smirked and stood up. “Can I get you anything else, Inquisitor? Bread? Meat?”

Just the thought of food made her stomach do a somersault. It must have shown on her face because Cullen nodded.

“All right then, just the tea. We’re not due to leave for some time yet, so feel free to rest, make yourself at home. I’ll make sure you aren’t disturbed while I make final preparations.” He disappeared through the tent flap.

Ingrid sighed and laid back down, pulling the fur up to her chin and trying to ignore the pounding in her skull. She decided there would be plenty of time later for her to be properly mortified by her behavior and her dream about Cullen. For now, sleep.


End file.
